


Snap

by bucky483



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Master/Pet, Rape/Non-con Elements, in which Sherlock just goes batshit, some form of stockholm syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:58:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucky483/pseuds/bucky483
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock looses it. and then it all goes a bit wrong. and I think I've drunk too much. I wrote this ages ago and can't even remember what happens. it's a transfer from my DA. enjoy? there's violence, rape and slavery. and it's all badly written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"John, I'm bored."  
Sherlock was sitting, upside-down, in his favourite armchair. One of his feet was slowly moving over the corner of the chair, up and down.  
The paper that John was skim-reading was quickly shut and thrown onto the floor, landing with a soft thud. Sherlock's foot stopped moving as soon as he heard the offending noise.  
"What do you want, Sherlock?"  
"John."  
His name was said in such a way that it caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. John raised his head quickly, eyes wide. Goosebumps down his back caused him to shiver involuntarily. Sherlock said the words John was expecting but still dreading, slowly and with an air of anger.  
"My riding crop. Bring it to me."  
*  
TWO MONTHS EARLIER  
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.  
"OW, SHIT! STOP!"  
Thwack.  
"SHERLOCK. FOR THE LAST TIME."  
"Yes, John? Something the matter?"  
Sherlock was standing behind John's favourite armchair, riding crop in hand, violently assaulting the back of his chair. Every so often, Sherlock would "accidentally" hit John's shoulder or neck, which elicited a low growl or cry of pain from his husband. Sherlock was a mixture of bored and curious, which was never a good combination. He wanted to see how John would react at having his daily read of the paper violently disrupted by a Consulting Detective wielding a riding crop, viciously attacking the chair he was sitting in. Sherlock hitting John wasn't part of the investigation at all, but Sherlock found that he somewhat enjoyed listening to the cries of pain coming from the man he loved.  
Trying to regain his composure, John slowly folded the newspaper and let it rest against his chest. He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath.  
"If you hit my chair one more time, I will hit you with that crop. Okay?"  
Thwack.  
The newspaper was thrown backwards, narrowly missing the Detective's head and John jumped to his feet.  
"I warned you, ya bastard. Give it to me."

The look in Sherlock's eyes was similar to that of when the pair were a few years younger, chasing each other around the room, battling for dominance. John, however, looked thoroughly annoyed.  
Sherlock moved to run around the right side of the chair, but quickly turned to the left side so to confuse John, but his husband's army training had taught him better. Although Sherlock had the brains (sometimes) and the brawn, John was much more proficient in tactics and fighting. His background in rugby helped too and with a swift movement, he tackled Sherlock to the ground, landing on top of him.  
"Well done John, I'm impressed. Usually you're much more slow. It's your age, I suppose. Can't be helped."  
In the blink of an eye, John flipped Sherlock over to his front, and detangled the riding crop from the long, pale fingers wielding it.  
"How many, Sherlock, hm? How many do you think that you deserve?"  
"I'd say… Four or five. Judging by your declining fitness levels, you'll get to three and be out of breath. Then threaten me with Mycroft."  
"Do you never learn, Sherlock?! God, you'd be a rubbish prop. Take your shirt off."  
"No."  
"Sherlock."  
"I'm not taking it off, John."  
With a grunt, John shoved his hands under the chest he'd touched and caressed so many times and worked his way up to his husband's pale neck. Slowly, with effort, he undid all of the buttons of the purple silk shirt. It would be a shame to damage such a lovely shirt. Such a lovely shirt that cost more than John's weekly pension. His hands slipped over Sherlock's chest, over his nipples and up to his shoulders. Sherlock gasped at he felt the warmth of John's hands brush over him, his nipples hardening at the touches. Slowly and carefully, John peeled the shirt off Sherlock's porcelain back and threw it over the arm of the sofa, close to where Sherlock fell.  
Slipping the strap of the riding crop over his wrist, John flexed his arm. He moved his body so that he was straddling Sherlock, his thighs on either side of the thin man's bony hips, pressing him into the carpet of their living room. Sherlock turned his head to the side, out of the corner of his eye he could see John flexing his wrist. A sudden overwhelming wave of something overcame Sherlock - what was this emotion? Why was he feeling it? Why was he feeling it now, with his husband being the dominant one instead of him, not any other time?  
John raised his arm and bought the riding crop down onto Sherlock's back with a loud, dull smack, catching Sherlock completely off-guard. Sherlock gasped a strangled cry and gripped the edge of the rug in front of him.  
Again.  
Thwack.  
Shoulders.  
Sherlock's breathing was deep and laboured. His knuckles were white and his face was screwed up.  
Thwack.  
Diagonal.  
Lower back.  
Side of front.  
His face was slowly relaxing. His eyes still stayed shut.  
Thwack.  
Across the back.  
Sherlock had been silent through his punishment, save for the first strike. His silence came to an end when John placed the final blow to a part of his back that cut across two previous strikes, causing a deep growl from the Detective.  
"You okay?"  
John gently moved a few errant curls of his husband's hair from the wounds near his neck. The doctor looked at his handiwork and sighed softly.  
"I'm sorry, love. You alright?"  
With one sharp movement, the Detective pushed himself up, throwing his husband backwards, his head hitting the arm of the armchair. John hit the floor, banging his head again on the hard floor, arms flying backwards. Sherlock pivoted on his knee, straddling the doctor similarly to how he was, not a moment ago. Sherlock pinned John's arms down, keeping a firm grasp on the strap of the riding crop still around John's wrist. John watched as Sherlock, with a look in his eyes he had never seen before, slowly bent his head down so his lips were touching his husband's ear.  
"You… Thought… You…Could punish… Me."  
The doctor moaned softly, his vision blurry, and rolled his head so it was resting against Sherlock's soft cheek. He moaned again, softly, mumbling something that was supposed to be 'I love you'.  
"Not good enough… Love."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> probably should have covered this but prop = slave type person urm yeah if there's any weird words I've used then shoot me a comment or something idk

Sherlock ripped John's shirt off, buttons flying in every direction and put the hand that wasn't attached to the crop underneath his knee, pressing John's knuckles into the floorboard. John's vision was clearing more now, he opened his eyes and tried to release himself, fighting against Sherlock who was pinning him to the floor. The look of fear in John's eyes was fuel for Sherlock, it maddened him and made him more violent. John's fist clenched weakly, in an attempt to stop Sherlock unhooking the leather strap. This enraged Sherlock further.  
"John. Let go."  
"Sh'lock… Please…"  
"Do as I say, John. RELAX. YOUR. FIST."  
Sherlock gave up on asking and bent John's fingers back so his palm was facing the ceiling. He pulled the riding crop out of John's hand with skill and with a quick flick of his wrist, bought the tip down onto the sensitive skin of John's palm. John squealed in pain and tried to pull his hand away, but Sherlock pushed it under his knee to hold it in place, exposing John's lightly tanned chest and neck.  
Lashes and punches showered down onto John's vulnerable front and sides, causing him to cry out and scream. When Sherlock was finished releasing his pent-up anger on his husband, he released the riding crop and dug his nails into the skin on John's collarbone. Slowly, Sherlock dragged his sharp nails down John's chest, over and into the welts forming quickly, listening to his husband scream. When Sherlock reached the edge of John's jeans, he moved his hand to John's neck, stroking it softly.  
"You'd be such a… rubbish prop, John." His grip around John's neck tightened and John struggled for breath, tears rolling down his cheeks.  
"But we can always change that, can't we?"  
John's world went black.  
Sherlock stood up and put his shirt back on. Picking his phone up from the table, he phoned his brother.  
"Mycroft, I need some forms."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pretty short one this time. but the next is pretty long so yeah.

"And who would you like the tags registered for?"  
"John Hamish Watson."  
Sherlock was pacing the length of the brightly-lit office, Mycroft standing by the main desk, next to the frightened receptionist who was typing quickly.  
"Sorry Sir, erm, how do you, erm, spell Hamish, Sir?"  
"It's not difficult, you idiot. Let me help you, it beings with an 'H'"  
Mycroft gave his younger brother a look of annoyance and leaned over the shoulder of the receptionist, quietly helping her. The girl didn't ask any more questions, Mycroft filled the rest of the form out. The receptionist backed out of her chair and stood up, causing Sherlock to turn around sharply.  
"That's a short skirt, in fact, the length isn't regulation, is it? Now, either you don't know and judging by your lack of ability it might be your first day on the job, or your boss hasn't told you. Oh, you're blushing. The boss then. Your hand just moved to cover up your ring, engaged to him, married perhaps? No, you're a miss. I'd say you're shag-"  
"SHERLOCK. Do forgive my brother, Amy."  
The girl nodded her head before rushing to a filing cabinet and pulling out two dog-tags and a long chain. She put the first dog-tag in a machine that was connected to her computer, which proceeded to make a loud scratching noise.  
In a whisper, Amy turned to Mycroft and said, "It's printing now, Sir. Do you want to bring the prop in or arrange a home visit?"  
"I think a home visit will be best."  
With that, the red-head gave a small nod and turned back to the cabinet, taking out what looked like a hand-held vacuum cleaner. Sherlock saw the device and gave it a look of slight confusion.  
"It cuts the, er, chain and then it, er, wields it t-together so the prop can't, erm, remove it or, erm, t-take it off. It doesn't cause them any p-pain, it only takes, like, a couple of seconds."  
She gave a lopsided smile, as if the task of saying the sentence was an accomplishment. Sherlock made an 'o' shape with his mouth, then his face turned expressionless and he carried on with his pacing the room.  
The machine beeped and Amy removed the first tag. She placed the second tag into the machine, clicked the mouse a few times and the machine made the same ghastly noise.  
Taking him to one side, Mycroft said in a quiet voice, "Are you sure this is what you want, Sherlock? If you decide that you don't want him as your prop after he's been tagged, he will probably divorce you."  
With an evil look, Sherlock replied,  
"That implies that I might release him."


	4. Chapter 4

Back at the flat, John had just regained consciousness. He was lying where Sherlock had left him, tears rolling down his face. He was crying tears of not just pain, but sorrow and fear too. With effort, John pushed himself up slowly, grimacing at the pain he caused himself. He was sure that Sherlock had fractured or dislocated one of his ribs with one of the many punches he had received.  
Holding on to whatever he could for support, John made his way to the bedroom that was his, before he shared a room with his husband. Slowly dropping to his knees in front of his old bedside table, he opened the middle draw, which creaked with age and lack of use. Inside was his trusty medical box, the very one he had bought back from Afghanistan. He lifted the box up with a grunt and almost dropped it on the floor, the weight proving too much for his battered arms and chest.  
In less that ten minutes, John had wrapped his fractured rib and wiped the welts from the crop with antiseptic wipes. He pulled out a couple more wipes and put the box away, then went to the en-suite to find a bottle of baby oil. Walking back to the living room, he grabbed a black t-shirt and placed the bottle and packs onto the coffee table.  
The doctor flexed his back and shoulders, his face contorting slightly when one of the welts touched a part of his back, or his wrap tightened, putting pressure on his ribs. His gaze fell on the edge of the table, where his keys and wallet should have been. Sherlock must have taken them when he walked out, John thought. He was right, Sherlock took them so John couldn't go anywhere. Of course, locking John in the bedroom would have worked just as well, but that just wouldn't have been practical.  
John turned back to the sofa and picked up the black t-shirt, pulling it over his head slowly, gasping softly when it ran over a bruise or wound. John sat down on the sofa, momentarily forgetting his fractured rib. With a cry, he pushed himself back up again and changed position, varying from laying on his front, to sitting on the floor with a leg in the air. He finally found a comfy spot, his legs bent to the side, leaning on the side of the sofa.  
At that moment, he heard the front door open. Sherlock, Mycroft and Amy walked into the living room, all eyes on John.


	5. Chapter 5

Striding forward, Sherlock grasped John's bruised neck in one of his strong hands, lifting the smaller man up and pushing him against the wall, Mycroft taking a step back, out of the way. John's hands flew straight to Sherlock's hand that was cutting off his air supply. John involuntarily raised his head, which showed off his lower neck and Sherlock placed his free hand over John's mouth, pushing his head back further.  
Amy walked towards the two men, holding the tags which were attached to the chain. Her small hands threaded the metal chain around John's exposed neck, the tags falling behind John's neck, the freezing metal landing on hot skin. Amy took the machine from Mycroft and placed the ends of the chain into it's mouth. In seconds, the shortened ends were melted together the machine was turned off. She quickly inspected the join, making sure no sharp parts remained. The join passing her examination successfully, she quickly walked back to Mycroft and almost hid behind him. Sherlock released John, who fell to the floor and pulled at the new tags. The join had cooled completely and the tags rested about an inch underneath the join of his collarbones to the sternum. For a few moments he was still, but slowly, he reached out to touch Sherlock's leg, hugging it loosely and resting his face against his new owner's knee.  
Mycroft looked at John, who had tears rolling down his face, with pity, then placed a hand on Amy's shoulder and gently led her down the stairs, shutting the front door quietly.  
Mycroft's driver opened the door for the pair and Amy stepped in first, holding Anthea's hand so she didn't trip. The car ride back to Amy's office was a quiet one, perhaps the first where Anthea wasn't typing on her Blackberry - instead she had a reassuring arm around Amy.  
Mycroft walked Amy back to her desk, smiling tightly and thanking her, then handing her a folded cheque and walking back down the halls to his waiting car.   
Back at the flat, John and Sherlock hadn't moved. Sherlock was standing with his fingers together, resting underneath his neck and John was staring into oblivion, a rogue tear making its way down his cheeks, covered in sticky, drying tears. They stayed like that until the room became dark.  
Slowly, Sherlock dropped one of his hands down to John's shoulder, who instantly came out of his trance and tensed up, shying away from his owner's touch. Sherlock gently pulled John up by his elbow and turned him so that he was facing his master.  
Sherlock stroked one of John's tear-stained cheeks with his thumb and whispered softly, "Go to bed."  
He laid down onto the sofa once John had left the room and waiting for sleep to come. It never did.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rape in this chapter. notes at the end if you cba to read it, which is understandable. I tend to waffle.

At just after midnight, Sherlock slipped into bed with John, who automatically, routinely, snuggled into the larger man. Sherlock put one arm underneath John's arm, and held onto his dog-tags, as if he were scared that John would escape. Sherlock went straight to sleep, holding onto his husband.  
Sherlock awoke with a start, momentarily blinded by the sun that had seeped through the blinds. John was still curled into him and his tags were still tangled in his long fingers. Sherlock nuzzled into John's head, and felt the material of the wrap on his arm. With his free hand, he trailed the length of John's side, touching and feeling the material, scabs and bruises. He moved his hand to where he could feel the cuts made by his nails, the previous day. Carefully, Sherlock touched each bruise, cut and scar on his husband's chest.  
"I am so… sorry…"  
"Shtill… love… you…Sh'lock…"  
Sherlock placed a chaste kiss on John's cheek, then got out of the king-sized bed the pair shared, slowly. Walking from the bathroom to the kitchen, something shiny on the table caught his eye. Sherlock saw the collar and leash he bought yesterday after he phoned his brother. Distracted by this, he stubbed his toe on the corner of the wall. Shouting an obscenity, Sherlock hopped into the kitchen, grabbing the kettle then limping to the tap.  
John woke up properly as soon as he heard Sherlock shout in pain, but closed his eyes again when he heard the sound of the kettle being filled up. With a small smile, he peeled the duvet back and sat up, gasping when he flexed the injured muscles and skin. John took the wrap off and grabbed a pair of boxers and a pair of khaki trousers. He made his way over to the bathroom and turned the shower on to a medium temperature, making a contented sound when he stood under the water and closed the doors.  
Sherlock heard the shower being turned off and the shower doors shut, and quickly put two slices of bread into the toaster.  
John walked into the living room, struggling to tighten the wrap, completely oblivious to the collar on the table next to the baby oil. Sherlock turned around and smiled at his prop, his face dropping when he saw the wrap. He walked over to where John was with long strides and fixed the wrap quickly. It was only in the sunlight that Sherlock could see how much he hurt his husband, and as he turned around to rescue the now burning toast, John could see the same.  
"Sherlock, I am so sorry. Your back, I… destroyed it."  
John moved closer to his husband's back, and touched around the wounds. The wounds weren't as angry or as deep as what Sherlock had given John, but he was still concerned for his husband. Sherlock turned around to face John to reassure him, but John had turned already and was walking to the table, reaching for the wipes and oil. He stopped suddenly, as soon as he saw the leash and collar. Sherlock came up behind him and put his hands on the smaller man's shoulders.  
"It was…I didn't know how you were going to…React."  
Speechless, John took the collar in his hands and looked at it, turning it over and feeling the material, fingering the metal screws at the back and the cold metal loop at the front.  
"Are you…Actually going to make me…Wear it?"  
John sounded almost disgusted, but this was heavily masked by his shaking hands and the way his voice cracked slightly.  
"I don't know. If we're out late at night, then you'll have to. But…I don't know. I didn't think about that. I wasn't thinking when I bought it."  
John whirled around to face the taller man, his eyes fearful and scared.  
"I'm sorry. Sherlock, I'm sorry. Please, don't make me wear this. I… I'll… Please, I'm sorry. Forgive me-"  
"John. Stop."  
The prop took a step back, but backed into a chair, which shook the table. He swung around to check the table, nothing was broken, and turned back again. Sherlock had only seen John look like this when Moriarty had kidnapped him and strapped him into a coat full of Semtex, and let half a dozed snipers aim at him and his then-friend.  
"John."  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you so much, I'm sorry, I'm sor-"  
Sherlock raised his hand and slapped John, whose hands quickly went to his burning cheek. Sherlock wrapped John in a hug, then messily pressed his lips to John's. His tongue quickly invaded John's mouth, his hand moving to the back of John's neck and the other to the edge of the trousers he was wearing. Sherlock's tongue moved into John's mouth again, causing John to moan softly. The grip on John's neck tightened and the hand near his trousers moved slowly to the button. With skill, Sherlock popped the button open and slid his hand over the soft cotton of John's boxer shorts.  
The prop mumbled something that sounded a lot like a 'No', but Sherlock's soft squeeze on the increasing bulge in John's boxers caused a cry that sounded like anything else but No. John moved his arms, caught in the gap between their chests and placed his hands on the other man's shoulders, pushing him away softly. Sherlock noticed the change in John, but pushed against him more, moving his mouth to John's earlobe, tickling it with his hot breath, kissing and nipping the delicate skin, moving down his neck slowly. When John tried to push away again, Sherlock sunk his teeth into John's neck, causing him to cry out. Alternating between words and bites, Sherlock growled at John.  
"You…Are…Mine…Don't…Dis-…Obey…Me."  
John's breath caught on a gasp and a sob, as Sherlock whipped the collar from John's hands and screwed it in place, around his prop's neck, crushing their bodies together so John couldn't move. Sherlock went in for a final bite as he clipped the leash onto the loop at the front and pulled the leash downwards, causing John to stumble.  
Sherlock pulled at the leash and almost dragged the doctor into the bedroom they both shared. Sherlock pushed John onto to bed and started undoing his trousers. Struggling against the stronger man, John tried to push him off, but failed each time, earning a slap when he came closer to succeeding.  
"Mine."  
Sherlock reached for the bedside table and pulled open the top draw, grabbing a small bottle then returning to John. He spun John over to his stomach and spread his legs apart.  
"Put your hands above your head, don't move."  
John obeyed and held onto the edge of the mattress, his face buried in his pillow. Sherlock squirted some of the liquid onto two of his fingers - He wanted to make John know who owned him, and never to forget that. Sherlock pulled John's boxers down and pushed one finger in, giving no warning. John gasped and bit down on the pillow. Sherlock pushed his finger in and out of John for a couple of seconds and pushed the second in, causing John to squirm in pain. Sherlock started to scissor his fingers inside John, hitting his prostate once or twice, and with his other hand, pumped some more lube onto the palm of his hand. He quickly coated himself and thrust into John, causing John to scream in pain and grip the mattress even harder.  
"Don't… Fight…Me…"  
Sherlock grunted and moved, hitting John's prostate over and over. John cried out, a mixture of agony and ecstasy. Sherlock thrust faster and faster, digging his nails into John's hips, drawing blood when he came with a deep growl. He pulled out of John, falling beside him. Sherlock found the end of the leash and made short work of tying the end to one of the bedposts. John lifted his head up slowly, showing a tear-stained face and tried to push himself up using his arms. The leash restricted his movements and his ribs protested at the movements too.  
Sherlock took John's face in his hands and bent his head slightly so John was looking directly at him.  
"Mine. I love you."  
One more tear rolled down John's face and he opened his mouth slowly to try and say something.  
"Say it, John. You've said it before so many times."  
"I… Love you… Sherlock…"  
"Thank you, John. Go to sleep."

With that, Sherlock did his trousers up and pulled the duvet across John's naked legs, up to his back. He walked out of the room and into the living room. Walking over to the table, he reached for his box, next to the Baby Oil. Registering the presence of the clear bottle, Sherlock sighed softly.  
"He wanted to heal my wounds, after I hurt him."  
Quickly removing the thought from his mind, he opened his box, for the second time in twenty-four hours. Pulling out the glass vial with clear liquid and a disposable hypodermic, he prepared his favourite distraction. The Detective unravelled the piece of material curled up where the vial was laying and tied it around his left arm. Finding a vein, he prepared the needle and injected himself quickly and effortlessly, pulling the tie off with a sigh. It fell to the floor with a quiet Swish.  
Every time Sherlock prepped himself, he used one of John's ties, the edges browned by acid burns.  
"Sentiment", he thought, every time he started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sherlock rapes john then is all cool about it but john isn't that chuffed. like most rapes. yeah. summarising politically incorrectly ftw.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> congratulations sherlock you've realised what actually happens I just urg

Sherlock woke from his sleep, groggy and with a headache. He fell off the sofa he had been laying on and landed on the floor awkwardly. He blinked twice, to try and clear his swimming vision.  
"Date, date, what is the date?"  
Sherlock flipped himself over so he was laying on his stomach, which was currently making a deep growling noise and felt like it was twisting into a thousand knots. Waving his arms around on the rug, Sherlock caught hold of a newspaper, lying near the fireplace. The cover seemed familiar, he recognised the stories. There was a large rip down the middle of the front two pages. Holding it up to the light, the Detective made short work of it.  
"Direction of tear, the newspaper was pushed away. Light brown mark in a somewhat circular shape suggests… Footprint, wearing shoes inside, wasn't tidied up, dated the 25th which was two days… John!"  
Springing up with realisation, Sherlock forgot about his hunger and inability to see properly and ran into the bedroom that the men shared. John was curled up in the bed, as much as the lead would allow, cocooned in the duvet which had blood and urine stains on.  
The air was hot and stunk of urine and John was almost as pale as the bed sheets he was wrapped up in, despite the heat of the room.  
"John, John, wake up, please!"  
Pulling the covers off his sleeping Prop, Sherlock threw the duvet on the floor and ran over to the windows, throwing them open, then moving back to John. He untied the knot of the collar which John was still wearing and unlocked the collar with the key, which was in his pocket. Sherlock pulled John onto his back and shock him, waiting for a response. Still nothing. Jumping off the bed, Sherlock paced the room, hands on his head, pulling his hair and thinking of what to do:  
"Think, something, what would John do? Arg, John wouldn't have snapped and done something this stupid, would he? Mycroft, Mycroft what would that idiot do? Lestade, he'd do nothing, Hudson, MRS HUDSON, no, Wednesday, social evening, Salvation Army, army, medic, JOHN, John isn't here, you know that, what do I DO? Water, water, John needs water, 40 litres of water in the average male body and John has not had any water for two days, my fault, food, he hasn't eaten for two days, I need to slow down, no, I need to THINK, I don't know, ambulance, I need an ambulance, no I don't, they're useless, I nee-"  
Sherlock was cut off by John moving about on the bed, clutching his stomach as he reached for where the duvet should have been. Sherlock pounced and jumped almost on top of John, who had only the strength to half-open his eyes to look at his master. To John, Sherlock was a blurry image with no face, but what looked like a person meant that there was a person there, and people meant help.  
"Hoss..ta…"  
"Hos? John, help me, hos ta? Hosp… Hospital! Yes, a hospital, St Barts, Molly, where's Molly?"  
Sherlock jumped over the pile of duvet and ran back to the living room, where he found his phone and speed-dialled Molly, who then phoned an ambulance.  
"John… I am so, so sorry…"


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorrynotsorry. actually I'm quite sorry. yeah. soz.

When Sherlock got to the hospital, John was laying in a private room, surrounded by people in white coats. Pushing through the nurses running past him, Sherlock made his way up to John's bedside, only to be pulled away by one of Mycroft's guards.  
"Get off me! That man is mine, that man is-"  
"That man is dying."  
One of the doctors saw Sherlock and motioned to the other guard. The other guard walked towards Sherlock and helped to drag him out of the room. He was pulled down the corridor, kicking and screaming every word he could think of, before he was locked in a dark room. Fumbling around for a switch, Sherlock began to panic even more. The dark, the one thing he was terrified of. The second. The first was losing John.  
A sombre-looking Mycroft was walking up the corridor that his brother was being dragged down not a moment ago, walking towards John's private suite. Mycroft knew that he should never have given the forms to Sherlock, but even his minor position in the government couldn't change anything now. His brother was locked in a room, screaming in despair and fear, and the man that he let be beaten and raped was lying in a hospital bed, tubes in every part of his body, desperately clinging on to life.  
"How long has he got?"  
"I don't know, sir. He's… Not doing well. Dehydration and starvation. We've given him morphine, just to calm him down and help him relax a bit."  
Mycroft made a short nod to the man, then turned and walked back down the corridor, to the room which held his brother. The room was Mycroft's order, he had known since the first night that a four year old Sherlock came into his brother's room with his blanket, sniffling, saying that there was something in the dark. Mycroft had never been kind to Sherlock about his apparently "imbecilic" fear of the dark, and even when his father left him, his brother and their mother, when their mother found out about the cause of her youngest son's fear, he still showed no sympathy.  
Knowing that the period of time he had left his brother in the dark for, would have sedated him by now, Mycroft dismissed the two men, still outside the door. Unlocking the door swiftly, Mycroft walked in, turned on the remote-controlled light and pulled his brother to his feet.  
Sherlock stumbled as he was pulled towards John's room yet again, and couldn't control himself as he pushed the staff out of the way to reach his husband.  
John's heartbeat had been decreasing steadily since Sherlock had been put in the room away from him. As soon as Sherlock grasped his hand, the machine registering the prop's pulse hit a new low and sounded a loud alarm.  
The two men that Mycroft had sent back to the room pulled Sherlock away and held him back, whilst the doctors rushed around John, trying to do everything they could to get his heartbeat back up. Sherlock was screaming and kicking.  
"Tell me, what did you give him? What did you give him to sedate him? Tell me!"  
"Be quiet, Sherlock. They gave him morphine. Now stop this."  
The younger man's face paled and he stopped moving immediately.  
"He's allergic to morphine."


End file.
